Fifty Shades of Beige

Revolting against midlife invisibility through an inheritance of style

When my grandma was in memory care, I painted her nails. I also did her makeup—gently applying shimmery eye shadow on her crepey eyelids, gingerly patting blush onto her cheeks, and swiping a layer of gloss on her half-parted lips. She checked her look in the mirror. She approved.

My grandma always cared deeply about her appearance. And it showed. For as long as I can remember, my MeMaw never looked anything less than a million bucks. Everyone who knew her has memories of her incredible style. When my mom was in college, MeMaw dropped jaws rolling onto campus in a powder blue Cadillac with a matching powder blue suit. She busted out her collection of full-length furs regularly. At 70, with crimson hair and bright red lipstick, she was still turning heads as she’d walk through a room in a matching red leather mini skirt. She slayed.

Frieda in her element

Her obsession with looking good wasn’t all for vanity’s sake. Growing up very poor in rural Kansas and with little education, my grandmother’s beauty was her way out. Her striking looks turned heads and brought many a man to his knees to propose. She married six times, with two marriages spanning more than 30 years each. As a young woman, Frieda’s beauty was her currency and her passport: from Kansas to Beverly Hills to Texas and beyond.

MeMaw instilled her attention to outward appearance in my mom and in me. The best compliment you could earn from my grandma was that you looked “pretty.” From her lens, beauty and style were more than a fashion choice. It was a key to survival. It mattered to her more than it does to most… because it had to.

My grandmother’s story, though, is not my own. Thanks in part to her struggles, and to my mom’s, I’ve lived a very different life. I distinctly remember my grandmother’s pride as she watched me graduate from Vassar College. The trip across the country was difficult for her and her husband, but she did it anyway.

Three generations

My education and career have offered me far more choices than Frieda had. Nevertheless, my love of self-expression and style remains. I cherish my grandmother’s lessons that celebrate beauty as an outward expression of self worth. I abandon beauty as a projection of worth. I keep the inherited joy in style. I ditch appearance as a full-time job.

In my 40s, self-expression and style are not a catwalk, but a tightrope. I’m surrounded by cultural messaging that coaches me to disappear. Vast palettes of muted beige, grey, black, and white, in large, billowing, shapeless formats litter my Instagram feed. On the surface, this imagery is sold as elegance; underneath, it’s an invitation to fade into the background. Women in their 40s and beyond are subtly encouraged to step backwards towards irrelevancy. As we’re guided towards fifty shades of beige, we’re guided towards a bigger message: Be less noticeable. Be less loud. Be less.

No thanks.

In my teens, 20s, and 30s, my style took many shapes. I bounced from gothic teenage rage, to edgy New Yorker, to playful professional. But, the styles that marked those years don’t resonate for me in my 40s. Cheerful little dresses and sky high stilettos feel forced and uncomfortable. Over the years, my body has changed, but more importantly, I have changed. I am more self-possessed. I am more self-confident. I am more self-aware. I am less interested in projecting an image or in turning heads. But, I’m no less interested in expressing myself.

And I know I’m not alone. Women in their 40s and beyond are craving and creating their own forms of expressive style. My hairstylist shares her fashion Pinterest board with me as she cuts my platinum blonde pixie into a faux-mohawk-mullet. My trainer winks with a lid covered in mauve glitter eyeshadow as she shows me the silver lamé pants she just purchased. The nurse at my doctor’s office smiles through her pierced lips as she abandons the iPad medical forms to show me the Nike Tabis she just bought in three colors.

Each of us, in our own way, is offering a graceful “fuck that” to the pervasive messaging requesting we step back. We’re refusing the script, tearing it up into little pieces, and casting them into the air with a wild laugh. Women in beige might wonder what the hell is wrong with us. And to that we say: we don’t care.

For me, it’s a work in progress. I’m still discovering what makes me feel beautiful, strong, confident, alive. The more I explore, the more I realize how many forms of self-expression live within me. A white t-shirt, jeans, and kickass sneakers, paired with a luxuriously sexy perfume. A vintage suit that fits like it was tailored just for me. A dress that makes me feel as strong as I am. Style takes countless forms. For me, it’s about attuning to what makes me feel happy, hot, poised, and playful, from the inside out, not the outside in.

Bad bitch vibes

If I’m lucky enough to live into my 90s like MeMaw, I have a long way to go before the lights go down. I want to live those years taking up more space, not less. I want to be that woman rocking the red leather mini skirt. My grandma taught me the currency of style and beauty. Now, I’m learning where I actually want to invest: in myself, unapologetically.